


Sticks and Stones

by onecoolcactus



Series: Make It Our Own [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, How to Train Your Dragon (Movies), Lucifer (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Animal Death, Art, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Good Omens but with dragons, HTTYD - Freeform, Illustrated Fiction, M/M, Night Furies (How to Train Your Dragon), Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:47:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22828936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onecoolcactus/pseuds/onecoolcactus
Summary: Crowley just couldn't bring himself to kill a dragon.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Make It Our Own [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1648492
Comments: 7
Kudos: 46





	Sticks and Stones

**Author's Note:**

> I've always thought more adult stories should be illustrated, so here we are. I have no idea how well this format will work out since it's a bit of an experiment. I also might get better at drawing doing this.  
> Fair warning ahead of time, this means there's no set schedule for this fic. The next chapter is done when I finish drawing. The other warning is that the tags will change as I add things, and that the violence might be more intense because of the added art, so please keep on eye on the tags. If there's anything super intense I'll add an extra warning at the beginning of the chapter. Thank you for reading!

The fog was rolling in over the sea, soft white and cold as it passed over the water. It surged up the steep cliff sides and sifted finally through the tall, yellow grass blanketing the island’s surface.

Crowley shivered as water droplets rested on his skin, but did not pause in his work. He pulled the shuttle through the lines he held in his hands, mending and rebinding the fishing nets with deft fingers. He hung his feet off the side of the cliff face, only ten feet or so up from the rampway leading down to the dock, but it still sent his stomach into a spiral to look down past it, into the swirling waters amongst the rocks below. 

The hunters had returned with the fog. They’d been gone for days now, checking every small island or lonely rock for sprung traps. Crowley had looked at their catch as the ships had slowly pulled into the protective cover of the cave cut into the side of the cliff. His stomach had sunk with the sight of it-- the catch was bad again. There had been only a handful of game animals, and even fewer dragons. 

Even worse, the last ship still idling down below looked like it had gone through a bitter fight. One sail was gone completely-- which explained why it was limping along behind the rest-- and several of the shields down one side carried the tell-tale charring of dragon fire. 

Several shields were gone entirely.

Looking closely, still carding the shuttle through the fishing net all the while, Crowley could see Hastur and Ligur down below in the wrecked ship. He grimaced, looking away quickly when Hastur seemed to look up at where he was perched.

The first returning hunters had been muttering and growling angrily on their way back to the village, thankfully not taking their ire out on him as they did. A bad fight would have the rest in a sour mood. Not enough food, or dragon parts to sell off for food, would make them even worse-- especially Hastur. Crowley could count on having to avoid them for a little while. He could hole up in his house for a week or two, eating his own squirreled away food-- if he stretched it out, he could last a month maybe--

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of feet stomping down the muddy path from the town. Crowley didn’t turn around, carefully undoing a tangle in the line and rebinding a broken knot. It was bad enough the hunters were unsuccessful and grumpy. Not being able to catch fish to make up for no game would put the whole town against him.

“Oi, CRAWLY!”

Crowley ground his teeth and hunched his shoulders tightly, as if to protect his neck from the bite of the nickname. 

“CRAWLL-YYYYYYYYY-”

“WHAT?” he called back angrily over his shoulder, “I’m busy! And it’s CROWLEY.”

The other villager-- Amoneth or something like that-- sniggered loud enough that Crowley could hear him even up the path. He scowled fiercely as he slanted him a glare. He swept his red hair over his shoulder impatiently, the ends tickling his chin. 

“What do you want?”

“Not me,” Amoneth called back cheerfully, “The chief is asking for you.”

If Crowley’s bad feeling about the hunters had put an iron weight in his stomach, it was nothing compared to the anvil that dropped into him at this news. He swallowed thickly and forced his hands to unclench from the net. 

“The chief?” he croaked, then repeated it, louder. “Why?”

“Don’t ask questions,” Amoneth replied, already turning to go back to the village. His message was delivered and all there was now was to wait and see what the result was. “Just get up to the Great Hall!”

He ran back up the path. Crowley watched after him, nervous, then slowly climbed to his feet. He dithered anxiously there, on the cliff edge, debating. Taking a leap into the ocean was probably the better option if the chief was angry at him. Drowning in the cold water was preferable to being dragged through the streets and publically disemboweled for a spot of entertainment. 

There were more footsteps, this time on the bottom deck of the ramps leading from the docks. Crowley heard the voices of the last hunters-- and most notably-- Hastur. If Hastur caught sight of him while in a foul mood, he’d be in worse trouble. Crowley threw his work in progress on top of the still waiting pile of nets he had yet to get to and legged it up the path, ignoring the mud trying to suck his boots off his feet. Several people out and about in the early morning fog looked at him on the way by and there were some smirks shared between them.

Crowley made a point of ignoring this, trying to keep his churning stomach under control as he passed under the looming statues of warriors and hunters wielding swords and wrestling with great, tangled up dragons. He paused at the bottom of the stairs, staring up at the Great Hall that was partially wood, partially carved from the cliff face behind it. Bracketing the doors and stairs were the hulking, curved ribs of an ancient sea dragon, curling over and caging in anybody passing beneath them. Crowley ducked his head and didn’t look up until he got to the great doors and pushed them open.

Firelight greeted him, a burst of orange light that nearly blinded him after spending most of his morning under the grey sky. A rush of warmth and the scent of cured meat hit him next and he stood awkwardly in the doorway for several long minutes, staring into the Great Hall. Rows of tables where they all ate together during festivals and good hunting seasons lined the very front. A large table sat up front, turned perpendicular to the rest, where the chief and his closest generals mealed at. There was an empty space behind this, where the massive fire pit was warming the Hall. Crowley had seen this space used for arranging battle plans, or sorting pillaged goods, and once in a dire emergency when deep winter had gotten so bad that everyone had slept together in the Hall. 

Mostly though, as it was now, it was where the chief heard his people, and passed down his orders-- or judgement-- to them. At the back was the dais where the chief’s massive throne sat. Carved from dark stone, the edges were chiseled sharp and harsh, and the back resembled a sternum and ribcage from a dragon. A sword rested against its arm.

Seated there, one leg slung over the leg of the throne, was Lucifer, chief of the Hel clan. Dark eyes looked down at Crowley with amusement.

“Come in, Crowley,” Lucifer called, voice loud in the quiet Hall, “Shut the door, before you let the heat out.”

Crowley obeyed, forcing himself to walk between the dining tables, ignoring the gazes of the tired hunters resting upon their return. He rounded the fire pit and found himself before the throne, standing on the skin of a nadder. He bowed low, eyes downcast, hyper aware of the mud on his boots now. 

“Sir,” he said quietly, “...You called for me?”

“I did,” Lucifer said, his voice eerily cheerful considering what must have only been poor news from the hunters. He wasn’t smiling. This only served to make Crowley tremble a little harder. He wouldn’t really need to explain himself for deciding to end Crowley’s life. “One less mouth to feed” during an approaching lean time would be just the ticket to settle any possible rumbling.

Lucifer confirmed his fear a second later.

“We’ve had a rather long run of bad luck,” he said, his voice smooth as oiled silk, “And the numbers just aren’t adding up around here. People can mend their own nets, Crowley darling. You’re not putting in as much as you’re taking out, and the next winter is looking to be pretty rough on our food stocks. So some _losses_ need to be cut.”  


Crowley opened his mouth. His throat stuck. He jerked when he heard a very distinctive hissing sound nearby-- Lucifer’s favorite deathgripper, Bloodwing, sat off chain by the wall. It’s mantis-like legs were curled up tightly and it was still muzzled, but Mazikeen, Lucifer’s right hand, had her hand on the buckle and was grinning like a child waiting for a honey treat.

“I’m--” Crowley started. He watched with nervous eyes as the bloodgripper's long tail, tipped with the deadly stinger, swung around threateningly to curl around its legs. The stinger was capped and the dragon's long tusks retracted, but it was was still an intimidating sight. The anvil that had dropped in his stomach earlier was gone, replaced by icy terror as his mind snatched at scattered thoughts. “I can-- I can _leave_ \--”

“That wouldn’t be much fun at all, would it?” Lucifer asked, “I’d deprive Mazikeen and our hard working hunters a show, and poor old Bloodwing his best meal of the season.”

Bloodwing’s beady yellow eyes looked at Crowley. Crowley tried not to look back. On his throne, Lucifer shifted and held up a hand. Crowley flinched in terror, nearly tripping himself as he took a step backwards, but Mazikeen did not release the deathgripper. 

“I know not everyone can be a hunter,” Lucifer said, shrugging slowly, “The elderly, the children, the sick, the injured, and so on. And we need fishermen too, and people to raise and herd the goats. But you’re not any of those things, are you? And we all know your last attempt to be a hunter ended with a rather spectacular show of cowardice.”

Crowley resisted the urge to raise a hand to his face, where the tattoo of the snake branded him a coward. A cursed little viper in the grass, appearing only in good times to bite and poison and disappearing during the hard times. He’d only been a child, was his own justification for not bringing the knife down into the dragon’s heart, but the chief at the time, Lucifer’s father, would have none of it. 

Lucifer seemed to relax back into his seat. He picked up the sword that was resting against the arm of the throne and gave it a contemplative look. 

“But,” he started, finally smiling. Crowley wasn’t sure if this was better or worse. “I thought you deserved another try before we made you into a meal for Bloodwing.”

He held out the sword, pommel first. Crowley stood frozen to the spot. 

“It’s for you, Crowley,” Lucifer said encouragingly, “Come on then. I picked it out especially for you.”

Crowley managed the few wobbly steps it took to bring himself forward, and he awkwardly took the sword. It was short, but the edge was very sharp. It was well made and meant for a proper job. 

“The hunters told me they had a run in with a night fury,” Lucifer explained when Crowley stepped back, sword in hand. “I’m sure you noticed the ship out there. It did a good deal of damage before escaping, but they did manage to deal it a blow, and it was sighted falling into the forest on the edge of the island.”

Lucifer propped his chin on his fist.

“The parts of a night fury are pretty rare and sell for a high price,” he explained, “It’s enough money to fix that ship right up, with _maybe_ just enough left over to buy the food needed to justify having you around another season. Are you catching my drift?”

Crowley swallowed. This was a chance. This was time. 

“Yes, chief,” he managed, “You want me to bring it back?”

“That’s right,” Lucifer replied, “You’ve got it, Crowley. It’s already quite injured. If you’re lucky at all it might be dead already, though dragons can be surprisingly resilient. Kill it if it’s alive, and bring it back here.”

Crowley bowed again, nearly dropping his sword. He heard Bloodwing hiss impatiently and he couldn’t help the slight jerk he made at the sound of it.

“And Crowley?” 

Crowley looked up from the head of the rug. The dead nadder’s stitched up eye glared up at him just as eerily as Bloodwing’s gaze. Lucifer’s wasn’t much better, but at least one of the three were giving him a chance. 

“Crowley, if you’re not back in a timely manner, I’m afraid I can’t let Bloodwing go hungry for long,” Lucifer said, “I’ll turn the hunters out, and it won’t just be dragons they’re looking for. Come back with the night fury on time though, and I might do you the favor of cutting that tattoo off your face.”

There were several guffaws at the tables behind him. Crowley did not look back as he nodded. He glanced over at Bloodwing, who was now being rechained to the wall, and then sketched out a quick, final bow before Lucifer waved him off dismissively, calling for someone else like he hadn’t just threatened to have Crowley hunted down and gruesomely butchered.

Crowley only just kept himself from running out of the Hall, only picking up the pace once the door was shut behind him and he could breathe fresh, open air again. He ran down the stairs, narrowly avoiding Hastur and Ligur even as they called irritably out to him, and took the winding path to his small home on the edge of the village. He didn't bother to spend the time to light and stoke up the fire, choosing to work by candlelight.

He had time. _Borrowed_ time, but time nonetheless. He could look for the night fury and see. If it was dead already, then he had a whole season’s worth of time to plan an escape from Hel. He clearly couldn’t stay the way he was anymore, buying his life year by year. There was the ocean between Hel and Erth, and tidal dragons and unknown dangers, and his own small boat was just this side of seaworthy, but he would have to deal with it.

If he found the dragon alive… he probably only had a few days to try and escape, and he needed to make the best of it. Crowley knew exactly who he was, had known since he was thirteen and staring a downed dragon in the eye while the older hunters encouraged him to cut its heart out with the knife in his hands.

Crowley had not done it. He could not. He had cut the rope instead to free it, and it had earned him a tattoo and a life scraping by on the fringes. He knew who he was, and he was _not_ a hunter. He couldn’t bring himself to kill much of anything more than a fish. 

In the slight safety of his home, Crowley plotted and planned, gathering his meager belongings that he could safely carry without looking suspicious. The sword, food, his waterskin, a fishing knife and a bundled net, his tinderbox, and so on. He packed his book with his many drawings and sketches of stars and plants and dragons, but didn’t dare take too much more that was personal for fear of someone noticing. 

Finally, with one hopefully-not-yet-the-last look around what had been his home since he first came to Hel, Crowley ducked out of the house. Thankfully, the sky had darkened threateningly with an impending storm, and most everyone that had been out were now inside. He wound his way out of the village, following the muddy path past old statues and through the fields of yellow grass, which were bending in the wind. The forest loomed, all ash-gray and yellow leaves and twisted trunks. 

Crowley was glad the night fury had landed in the forest, and not towards the volcanic lands on the other side of the island. The old volcano itself was mostly inactive except for the occasional burst of ash, but the dragon activity around the volcano was much higher-- and much more dangerous. For the winter most had holed up within the volcano itself and were largely inaccessible now, but Crowley didn’t fancy waking something up.

“Oi.”

Crowley considered, for a moment, that all his plans had been for naught, because he was certain he was going to die of a heart attack as Hastur emerged from behind a tree at the forest’s edge. He squinted at Crowley with dark eyes, then held up a cloth bundle of something.

“The chief told me to bring this to you,” he said, voice gruff. His pale hair whipped back in the raising winds. “And said not to thank him.”

Weird. Lucifer was usually quite happy getting credit and praise. Crowley cautiously took the bundle, discovering it to be packed with salted and smoked fish, a good addition to his meager rations. The cloth had a burnt edge and was tied hastily with fishing cord, and--

Oh. Lucifer would have given him this in the Hall, on fine cloth, and would have paraded the fact that he had as a glorious act of mercy and kindness. Crowley carefully tied the bundle shut again and added it to his pack.

“Thank y--”

“What did I say?” Hastur snapped, scowling at him, “Bring back the night fury or I’ll be the one to hunt you down and take your limbs off so you look like the snake you are. The village needs that dragon.”

He stalked off then without waiting for Crowley’s reply. Crowley watched him go unblinkingly, then slowly, stomach tied up in knots, turned towards the forest. 

He really, really hoped the night fury was dead. 


End file.
